GOLDEN GATE GLOVES (FIGHT CARD)

by Jack Tunney

  His close cropped black hair and black skin glistened in the light. The whites of his eyes were uncannily clear, emphasizing the deep concentration and focus he had on the task at hand.

  I had stepped in the ring with professionals before and they all shared one thing in common, something that was above and beyond, a little stronger here, a little quicker with the hands, able to see moves and reactions to moves in the future like some boxing prophet. Each time I stepped in, I felt like a school kid who’d never put on gloves before.

  Buffalo was quick. His jabs hit my protecting gloves and were back before I even knew what happened. His combinations were fast, jabs to the face, a left to my ribs, and a right to the head. I let the left hit my ribs and blocked the right while I sent out my own jab, and followed up with a flurry of jabs, and pushed him back.

  The mass of muscle stepped back and hopped on his toes. "All right," he said through a mouthpiece. "Now you’ve got the moths out of your head, let’s mix it up."

  FIGHT CARD: Golden Gate Gloves

  Featuring

  Conall O'Quinn

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD: GOLDEN GATE GLOVES

  e-Book edition © 2012 Robert Evans

  Cover: Keith Birdsong

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means without permission.

  ROUND 1

  San Francisco, CA 1951

  The day was an unnatural boiler for the normally tepid climate of the San Francisco Bay. Even in late July, the mercury scarcely hit above a hundred, but today was one for the history books. The heat didn't bother me one bit. I had pushed my body far harder on more than one occasion in my life. Some men on the docks were amazed and other disheartened, but either way none could keep up with the pace I set.

  However, what I couldn't out-last or stomach much was the gin pickled weasel of a dock foreman Sam Crazen, and the guy was shambling towards me with the clipboard he wielded like a weapon and attitude stolen from a badger.

  "You’re showing up everybody on the docks," he shouted. Sam was a small man, and a quagmire of self-loathing spilled from his sunburnt face like a bilge pump disgorging muck. What he lacked in stature, he made up in pure vileness. "If you don't slow down, you gorilla brain, I'll send your name to the union boss."

  "And what will you tell him, Sam?" I asked. "That I'm doing my job and moving cargo?"

  "Don't get smart with me, O'Quinn," he said. He worked the end of his cigar into his mouth as if searching for words buried in the folds of the tobacco. "You're doing the job of two men, so the way I see it, you’re taking a job away from another union brother. If you want to stay in this outfit, you'd better learn to keep pace with everyone else. You ain't special. You’re just a dumb palooka with a strong back that can be broken.” He pushed his smelly face into mine.

  I wanted to grab the guy by the throat just to see his eyes pop out. But I had learned early on to control my anger, and not let guys like Sam Crazen get to me. Someone like him was always around leeching off those of us who worked.

  The dock began to buzz with whispered words. "Mr. Mills - the owner - he’s on the docks."

  "Get back to work, O'Quinn," said Sam. "And stop lollygagging."

  Sam looked around with jerky motions, like a prairie dog popping its head out of a hole, before heading in the direction of the owner.

  "You got out of that one," said Benson as he sidled next to me and started unloading the pallet, his gnarled hands looked like twisted Manzanita, nut brown from the sun, and swollen at the joints. A long wisp of gray hair fell in front of his face, let loose from the heavy hair crème that kept it slicked back against his scalp. "What was it this time?"

  "This time, I was showing up all the other workers, doing the work of two men, taking a job from another union brother," I replied.

  Benson shook his head of thinning hair, and sniffed. "You know that S.O.B has it in for you. If you don't watch it, he's gonna get you in bad with the union, and you'll find yourself blacklisted from any work here in San Fran.”

  "I don't think I have much to worry about. The owner likes the fact I'm the champion of the docks. He likes that no other labor group has been able to put someone against me who can best me in the ring."

  "Just keep outta Sam's sights. I seen guys like him in the Navy. Guys that would pat you on the back while inciting everyone into throwing you overboard and letting the sea have ya."

  Benson was the most fatherly figure I'd come across since I left the orphanage and Father Tim. And like Father Tim, Benson was always trying to keep me out of trouble.

  For being only ten years my senior, he looked more like thirty, and acted like he had the knowledge to go with it. I guess he had the right. The war in the Pacific had been hard on him. He’d joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor and became a corpsman. He spent the rest of his time patching up Marines during some of the toughest island fighting of the war, until getting shot while at the battle of Tarawa, and getting held prisoner until liberated.

  When the Navy shipped him home, Benson was a paper mache caricature of himself. From time to time, I’d get glimpses of what the man was before. He never talked much about the war, unless loosened up by a few rounds of whiskey, and what he talked about was the kind of stuff that gave me nightmares.

  He always said I lucked out, because I didn't turn eighteen until after all the fighting was over. So, by the time I enlisted into the Army, I spent my time driving generals around. Not much to talk about. I even stayed in the reserves and joined the California National Guard, to do my duty one weekend a month.

  "Thanks for the warning," I said, going back to work at a much slower pace.

  "And don't go thinking you're unbeatable in the ring. I hear we just hired a guy who is six foot four and two hundred and twenty pounds."

  "You trying to tell me somebody's gonna challenge me for dock champion?"

  "All I'm telling you is what I heard," he said.

  For two years, since I first stepped foot on the docks and beat "Big" Clyde Jennson for the bragging rights as the toughest fighter on the docks, no one who had been hired could challenge me. "Big" quit in disgrace after the beating he got from a “kid,” as I was twenty-two and he was forty-one.

  I admit I might have caught him a little on his slide into old age, but all the fights I’d had afterward against other labor unions here in the city had been against younger and, sometimes, better opponents.

  But none of them had a tougher jaw or stronger constitution than me. Mr. Mills, the owner of the warehouses, liked being associated with the dock champion. It wasn't much of a secret that a bunch of wealthy men bet heavily on the fights, and I think what meant most to Mr. Mills were the bragging rights that went along with having a champion as a worker.

  "And there go the lackeys hoping to be seen by Mr. Mills," said Benson, watching the small crowd grow as it moved farther down the dock. "They all think Mills is gonna reach out into the crowd and touch one of them and give 'em a fortune."

  "What do you expect?" I said. "They all want something for nothing. Unlike you and me, they haven't fully grasped the notion of working for what you get."

  "I guess the rumors I heard were true." The voice was a deep low rumble.

  I looked up to see a guy standing well over six feet with the well-muscled physique of a strongman – tight and sinewy, like coiled steel. I doubt he ever worked a real job in his life. Pushing weights in a gym was his career. He walked around the pallet and vaulted off the bollard with a mountain lion’s ease before coming t
o stand inches in front of me.

  "Who are you?" I asked, unimpressed.

  "Barry, or more precisely, the guy that’s gonna kick you off this dock," he said mockingly, his eyes drilling into mine.

  I twitched my nose at the smell of the hair cream the guy used to mold his dark waves into place. It stunk worse than a sailor coming down the gangplank after six months at sea.

  "You want to challenge me as dock champion?" I asked, bemused.

  "If you want to call it that, little man," he said.

  Barry sounded all tough and cocky, but his airs spoke more of wealth, old wealth, the type that didn’t know the meaning of real effort. Boxing probably came easy to him, and he’d never been really challenged.

  I took a few steps back and pulled off my shirt. By this time a crowd was starting to gather. The news was buzzing up and down the length of the dock, and guys were moving in to watch the champion take on the Challenger.

  ROUND 2

  I pulled an old mouthpiece from my pocket, which I always carried with me. It had saved my teeth more times than I could count, since a challenger always seemed to be just around the corner. Within moments, a ring was roped off with hawser line and I was picking up a pair of gloves from where they’d been thrown down at my feet.

  Barry was standing opposite me taping his hands, with an entourage of handlers who had appeared as if by magic. These were all guys I’d never seen on the docks before today.

  Benson came tripping into my corner with a bundle concealed in his shirt.

  "Where did you run off to?" I asked.

  "Had to get my medical kit from the office," he said happily, as if his true passion in life was coming to call.

  When my hands wrapped and the gloves tied on, Sam Crazen appeared in the ring to give us the rules.

  "Hey, Sam," I yelled, "I’ve never seen you take interest in a dock match before."

  He smiled with a big weasel toothed grin, giddy at the coming spectacle. "Just excited to see you put on your back, is all."

  "Glad to see you're impartial," I said as I thumped my gloves together and bounced around to get the blood moving.

  Someone hit a bell and me and Barry approached. I eased in slightly crouched, arms up to protect my face and chin tucked. Barry stood with his weight back and his arms out in front like an old bare knuckle fighter.

  I couldn’t say anything for this guy’s smarts or bravado, but this was a particularly bad time to be playing around. I came in fast and got my leg next to his, and started pummeling his midsection like a two-fisted jackhammer. He was solid enough, but I put everything I had into those first few explosive punches.

  He tried to push me back, and when that didn't work, he tried to put me in a bear hug, and clinch me. Unfortunately for me, Sam didn't know how to referee a fight, and he just stood with a drop jaw look on his face.

  I kept changing up the combination, keeping Barry off-guard and wearing down his midsection fast. My arms were strong from years of long hours of heaving cargo. Suddenly, Barry grabbed my head between his gloves and swung me around. The crowd started cheering. I stepped back and settled into a boxing stance. Barry finally realized this wasn't a game. His mid-section was a mass of red and purple welts. By tomorrow, he'd be black and blue.

  We circled each other, watching, picking up one another's rhythm, looking for fatal flaws. He had at least twenty pounds on me, making him probably stronger than me, but I didn’t think he was as fast.

  The guy was good, but not that good, what I needed to watch out for was a surprise shot, a lucky punch that would put me on the ground. Some people said luck didn't play into boxing, but I disagreed. Some fights were won with nothing but dumb luck. That phantom fist of iron that could put you on your back was what I had to worry about, since I didn’t know this guy from Adam.

  Barry moved in fast, jabbing quick and hard at my head. I covered my face and took the punches. Again, he started throwing quick hard jabs.

  He dropped his left and set up his right for a hay-maker, but he was slow. I stepped inside and planted some hard leather against his already bruised ribs. He was tender there and dropped his arms to cover up. I took a step back, jabbed with my left at his ribs before bringing my right up from the floor and connecting with his chin. He stumbled back and went down on the hard concrete.

  Sam sputtered breathlessly when he saw Barry hit the ground, "Time, time! Hit the bell!"

  The guy with the bell started hitting it with all his might, and Barry's handlers rushed out to prop him on box. They huddled around him, like hens at a feeding trough.

  "That round still had at least a minute and a half to go," said Benson as he poured water over me, and fanned me with a towel.

  "They still haven't got him to come around," I said as I watched the fervor in the other corner. "He's resting better than most babies."

  "Don't pay him no mind. You just concentrate on what you need to do," said Benson as he stooped in front to look me over for any cuts. He took out some petroleum jelly and rubbed it on my face and shoulders.

  I sat quietly and let Benson work on me. I reviewed the fight in my head, figuring out what type of fighter Barry was, and how I could finish him. It was obvious I'd have to put him out for a long time, and early enough in the round so Sam couldn't call time.

  "This is the longest break I've ever had," I said. "Have they got him up yet?"

  Benson turned and looked. "No. They got more guys around him." Benson turned back to look at me. "I hope you didn't kill him."

  Suddenly the crowed cleared out, and Barry looked slightly more aware, and much more angry.

  The bell rang and I met Barry again at middle of the ring. He threw a hard jab to my face. I covered up, but the blow went through my gloves and smacked me right on the button. Blood burst out of my nose, and my head rocked back. That was one hard hit. Harder than anything he'd thrown in the first round. He came in low and caught me in my mid-section. The blow felt like solid iron, a baseball bat to the gut.

  I backed up and let the haze clear. He came in again and I took the blows on my blocking arms and gloves. He was hitting harder than he had before, like his punches were loaded with dynamite. I tried to back out of the onslaught he was laying on me, but he was batting me around the ring like a ragdoll. I watched the punches, trying to bob and weave, timing my ducks, throwing a punch to keep him off balance.

  He broke off the attack long enough for me to see he was breathing hard. The punishment I laid into his ribs was still doing some damage, and his recent swings had taken a toll.

  "Come on, Conall," shouted Benson, "Take the fight to him."

  The crowd was cheering and calling for more. They wanted to see the repeat of the first round and didn't care if it was me on the end of the beating or Barry – the ravenous slugs just wanted blood.

  He came at me with a jab and I set up for a hard right. I stepped into the punch and got a solid hit below his heart. I heard a rush of air come out of his lungs, and went to work inside, as hard as I could. His arms bobbed around like a puppet held by a string as he fought to catch his breath. I didn't give him the chance, and kept working his gut with every ounce of strength I had.

  The pop on the ear rung my bell like none other I'd ever felt before, and I staggered back, barely keeping my feet beneath me. The crowd was a muffled noise in the distance, and Barry was a blurry figure getting closer. His punch was telegraphed from a mile away and the signal was clear, he was lowering thunder on my head and my arms were down at my side. I slid to the side just in time for the blow to miss my head, and land on my shoulder.

  I swung away and shook my head to clear the cobwebs. Where did this guy get the power in his punches? I had never been hit by such strength except when I got on the wrong side of horse hoof and got sent flying into a manure pile.

  My head was clearing, and Barry was no longer a blur. He was tired and he was having a hard time keeping his gloves up.

  The bell rang and I went to my corner.

/>   "What happened in there?" asked Benson as he poured water over me and frantically waved a towel to cool me down.

  "I don't know," I said through gasps of breath. "But I’ll bet he's packing a knuckle duster in his glove."

  Benson looked at me aghast and spit outside the ring. "If that don't beat all," he said in disgust. "I guess they'll do anything to see this joker win."

  "He ain't gonna win," I said. "He can barely keep up his arms with the amount of weight they got in them."

  Benson shoved some gauze up my nose and stopped the blood that had been trickling out the entire round. He then mauled the rest of my face with his leathered hands, blotting blood, and dusting cuts with septic. "You’re gonna have a cauliflower ear after this," said Benson, as he cleaned a small cut and swabbed the blood away.

  The bell rang and I was back up. Barry came barreling across the ring, and I was barely able to side step him and keep from being bowled over like a matador with his back to the bull. He came off the rope and started jabbing. I stayed farther out of his reach than normal, giving him a target and then stepping back. He was getting frustrated swinging at air. The crowd was booing madly. I got hit by the remains of someone’s lunch. They thought I was afraid of this guy.

  Barry kept batting in the breeze, and the crowd kept getting more and more angry. Barry's hands started dropping. I stepped in and let him throw a clean right cross, which I batted down, following it with my own right upper-cut that had a clear shot all the way to his chin. He lifted off the ground a foot, out before he hit the concrete. A barrage of cheers went up and a flood of people filled the ring.

  Barry's handlers swarmed around him. I was shouting, trying to be heard above the racket, yelling that the punk had knuckle dusters in his gloves. I didn't even pay attention to the fact my gloves were frantically being torn from me.

  Somebody started banging on the bell, and the crowd started to settle down.